


A Minute to Someone

by perfectlystill



Series: To All The People Who Loved Peter And MJ Before [5]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Mild Blood, Minor Character Death, Misogyny, POV Outsider, Post-Graduation, Prom, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-31 06:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19420591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: The nice thing about Peter and MJ dating is that it’s not much different than when they weren’t. Gwen is sure there is something in that statement to analyze and digest, if she wanted, but she’s happy for them, and she doesn’t care about what potentially uncomfortable truths it could unearth if she picks it apart.Gwen, Felicia and Harry after dating Peter or MJ.





	1. Felicia.

**Author's Note:**

> For every previous work in this series, I like to think they can be read as individual pieces in any order and still make sense. At least, that was my intention. For this, though, it's probably better to have read the POV character's stand alone. If you don't want to do that, that's fine, too. Live your dreams! The world is your oyster! It's just a suggestion. 
> 
> Also, I started this universe pre-Endgame, and Tony is very much alive. Wild! 
> 
> Title from the Sanober Khan quote: "the saddest thing is to be / a minute to someone / when you've made them your eternity."

Felicia dumps Peter, and 37 days later, she finds out he’s dating Michelle while scrolling through her Facebook feed instead of paying attention in class. What the fuck ever. Felicia rolls her eyes, rests her cheek in her palm, and keeps scrolling. 

She doesn’t go out of her way to avoid or not avoid Peter after she dumps him.

That would imply she cares. Also, they have class together. 

She spends spring break at the beach drunk off sugary hard lemonades, lying out in the sun, dancing with her friends, and making out with a new boy every night. So, she’s not upset about his new relationship, per se, just annoyed. 

She doesn’t run into them making out in the quad or anything, and she only imagines a handful of pitiful looks sent her way. She’s totally, super fine. 

She honestly didn’t like Peter that much, anyway. 

Summer comes and goes with an internship at a lab in her hometown, a week in Cape Cod with her parents, and a party once a week. It’s fun, rejuvenating and exhausting. Felicia returns to MIT feeling really good. Her bangs grew out, her classes are more specialized and interesting, and she rooms with Angelica instead of Random Girl With A Fishbowl. 

She spots Peter ordering at the coffee shop they used to frequent together. When he turns to wait at the end of the bar, he sees her and nods, awkward smile on his face. Felicia stops him as he tries to walk by the rest of the line, tilting her head and smirking. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“I hope your classes are going well.”

“Yeah, thanks. I hope yours are, too.”

He rubs at the back of his neck, and she lets him leave without waiting until she gets to the front of the line or his name is called for his drink. She notes he only ordered one and leaves without taking a sip. 

She spots Peter and MJ together in early October.

A good, long amount of time from The Dumping in March. 

Felicia walks up the stairs to differential equations, and she sees them outside the door to the classroom across the hall from her own. Students rush in and out of the building, that between class chaos, but Peter and MJ are just standing there and talking. Right in everyone’s way. 

Kind of.

Even though not really. 

MJ takes a sip of the drink in her hand. It’s in one of those recyclable cups from the coffee shop, and Felicia thinks, for someone who allegedly cares so much about the planet, she should own a reusable one. Peter’s mouth moves and then stalls. His eyes crinkle around the corners. 

Gross. 

Felicia enters her classroom without waiting to see whether they part or leave the building together. 

The following Wednesday Peter and MJ aren’t in the hallway, and it’s so inconsequential that Felicia doesn’t think about it. 

Except the week after, they’re back at it, leaning against the same wall as before. Felicia’s PMSing, and she’s still single, and she shouldn’t be able to hear Peter laugh with other people milling about and the click of a girl’s heels coming up the stairs. 

But Felicia does hear it. She grinds her teeth. 

She shifts to the side of the staircase, tapping her fingernails against her phone screen.

Their conversation appears normal. They stand a decent distance apart despite leaning toward each other. MJ nods, a few seconds pass, and she shakes her head, biting her lip as though she’s more endeared than she wants anyone to know. 

Nothing about them is particularly PDA-esque. 

It’s kind of surprising to Felicia, considering Peter spent too much of their relationship finding flimsy reasons to touch MJ: picking an eyelash off her cheek, elbowing her in the side so slowly and gently it didn’t even count as ribbing, brushing his hand against hers while handing over a packet of salt. 

But there’s almost nothing happening in the hall to indicate anything other than two friends having a conversation. MJ takes a gulp of her drink, and Peter greets someone walking into the classroom behind her, nodding his head and lifting his hand. 

Felicia watches MJ and Peter continue their conversation before MJ leans forward, closing the gap and pressing her mouth to the corner of Peter’s. His grin is immediate. Felicia can see his eyes soften and shine, even from a few feet away. 

MJ shoves at his shoulder, playful, like she’s teasing him for being so stupidly in love with her, emphasis on stupid. 

After Peter heads into his classroom and MJ walks toward the stairs to presumably leave a campus that isn’t even hers, Felicia jams her own shoulder against Michelle’s. It isn’t playful. 

She doesn’t look back before entering her classroom, and for the rest of the semester, Felicia pointedly ignores Peter and MJ pretending not to flirt. 

Felicia and Peter both take human physiology spring semester. 

It’s a non-event until they’re randomly assigned to work together on their midterm project. 

Peter comes over to her after class, shifting his weight around. “Hey.”

“Don’t do that,” Felicia says, slipping her laptop into her bag and looking up at him. 

“Do what?” 

“That feeling bad for me thing you’re doing.”

“I don’t,” he says, blush high on his cheeks and hand gripping at his backpack strap, “feel bad for you.”

“You’re not the one that got away, Peter.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so up your own ass.”

He sighs. “When do you want to work on the midterm?”

“Saturday?”

“Okay. We could meet at the library?”

“Sounds good.” Felicia stands and slides her bag over her shoulder. “Leave your guilt complex somewhere else.”

Peter is smarter than everybody else in their class, so even though he shows up 40 minutes late without having done any preparation (Felicia calls him rude and disrespectful, and she doesn’t inform him the only preparation she did was during his 40 flaky minutes), they accomplish a lot.

They don’t finish, so they work out another time to meet up on Tuesday afternoon at the coffee shop.

This time, when Felicia shows up, Peter’s already there with Ned and MJ.

“Huh, deja vu,” she says, causing all three of them to look at her.

“Hey, Felicia.” Ned smiles. “What’s up?”

“Learned how to pick a lock with a credit card. You?”

Ned laughs and shakes his head. “Got an A in linear algebra.”

“Congrats,” she says. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. We should get lunch or something.” Ned’s eyes are clear, and he doesn’t look away from her. True. 

“Yeah, definitely.” She lets her gaze slide over to MJ. “You wanna get lunch, too?”

“No.” MJ zips her backpack. 

“And people say you’re not friendly.” 

“Felicia,” Peter warns.

“You don’t get to do that anymore.”

“Yeah, Peter, let her be an asshole in peace,” MJ says, all sarcasm. 

“He lets you, so it’s only fair.”

“Hey, I don’t--” Peter starts.

“Is this what it’s like to have girls fighting over you?” Ned interrupts, mumbling mouth half-closed. 

“No,” Felicia and MJ say in tandem, except MJ sounds horrified and Felicia is more annoyed. 

“Convincing.”

“I’m picking the movie on Friday,” MJ says, pushing her chair back so she can stand up.

“It’s my turn!” Ned protests. 

“Not anymore.” 

He sighs, getting up and shaking his head. He exchanges a look with Peter, mouthing something that might be: _She’s just mad I’m right_. Felicia’s lip reading skills are mediocre at best, so grain of salt and all that. 

“See you later, nerd,” MJ says to Peter.

“Bye guys.”

Ned leans over the table to fistbump Peter before he and MJ walk away. He explains, “I wasn’t being sexist, MJ. You know that you and Felicia are…”

Felicia flops into MJ’s vacant chair. Hm. “Not even a kiss goodbye. Cold.”

Peter exhales. “I found a few really good research articles.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Peter ignores her. Which is fair. She’s being a bitch just because she thinks it’s funny. In her defense, he deserves it, and she _is_ amused. 

The sun sets, Felicia drinks two cappuccinos even though it guarantees she won’t fall asleep until three in the morning, and when they’re packing up, Peter says, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to be.”

“Okay.” He nods and pushes his chair in. “Yeah.”

“I’m serious. It’s whatever.”

“Okay.” He swallows. “I just never apologized for-- You know. You deserved better.”

She shrugs. “I did. Thanks.”

“You don’t want the long version?”

Felicia huffs, but it’s nicer than she meant the noise to sound. “I’m good, trust me.”

The corner of Peter’s mouth quirks up. “Of course you are. See you friday?”

“Friday.”

They meet back in the coffee shop on Friday to work out the kinks in their project. There are no other kinks she wants to work out with Peter. Like, that’s important to note. Peter stops being more awkward than usual around her, and when they’re done, they share a piece of banana bread. 

“And Ned figured out how to fix the code so that it wouldn’t loop and--

“So,” Felicia cuts him off. His eyes are bright, eyebrows too animinated, and he’s talking about a fucking computer program that does something stupid with _Star Trek_ episodes. Boring. She stopped listening at least three minutes ago. “MJ seems a little cold.”

“What?”

“Frigid.”

Peter frowns. “She didn’t mention seeing you anywhere, so I don’t--”

“How’s the sex?” Felicia asks.

“Uh-- What-- I don’t-- Felicia,” he sputters, face flushing deep red. 

“Terrible? Boring?” 

“I’m not talking about this with you.”

She pokes at a bread crumb with her thumb. It sticks, so she scrapes it off her finger with her teeth. “That bad, huh?”

“I don’t even talk about this with Ned,” he says off the same breath from his previous sentence.

Lie. 

Well, actually, Felicies studies the hitch of his shoulders and set of his jaw. Half-lie. Ned and MJ are friends, so he probably doesn’t want the gory details.

“Just give me a little something?” She rests her elbows on the table and leans forward. “Wait, does she know I taught you everything you know?”

“Felicia,” he sighs.

“You haven’t had sex yet? She’s remaining pure until marriage?”

He clears his throat. “I’m leaving.”

“Oh, so even worse than I thought?” She cocks an eyebrow. He’s red down his neck, incredibly fidgety, and refuses to look at her. God, this is fun. 

“I’ll see you in class,” he says, standing up and swinging his backpack around. It smacks into his chair with a loud thud courtesy of his human physiology textbook. He flinches. “Bye, Felica.”

She wiggles her fingers at him, smirk smeared across her mouth.

Felicia doesn’t pay much attention to Peter or MJ. She sees them a handful of times, separately and together, and she eats lunch with Ned once when they run into each other at the cafeteria. 

She works her way through five different guys, passes all her classes, and, okay, she buried the lede here, starts using her jiu jitsu training (thanks, Dad) to force her own brand of justice onto the kind of men who steal a woman’s purse, or lean even closer at a party, spitting in girls’ faces when they reel back and turn their heads away. 

She’s at one such party, sipping beer, half-looking to score and half-looking to give some asshole a bruise, when she wanders into a room of people playing ping-pong. Like, not beer-pong, actual, honest to god ping-pong. 

She spots Ned first, and then she spots Peter. They’re playing against someone who looks vaguely familiar, like maybe he sat a couple rows away from Felicia in a giant lecture hall at some point, and someone who doesn’t look familiar at all. 

Peter is suspiciously awful, hitting the ball too hard in weird directions or missing it by a mile. 

“Dude!” Ned screams, smacking Peter’s arm. “Stop that!”

“I’m sorry,” he hisses.

Felicia looks around the room, not too surprised to see MJ standing in a semi-circle talking to people and pretending to watch the game. 

Felicia gets distracted when a cute boy with blonde hair starts chatting her up. 

“What does it mean that we’re both fire signs?” he asks, arm brushing against hers. 

So, you know, the conversation is mildly fun, good enough to take him back to her place if he turns out to be a good kisser. Felicia doesn’t know much about astrology or put much value in it -- she’s an actual scientist, thank you very much -- but she’s about to drop some ridiculous phrases about passion when she sees that Peter has joined MJ’s semi-circle.

Which is not what has her taking a step to the right so she can see better beyond Cute Blonde’s shoulder. 

What does is MJ’s hand.

MJ’s hand up the back of Peter’s shirt, scratching up and down.

Here’s the thing: Felicia knew Peter would never tell her anything about his sex life with MJ, or anyboy else, for that matter, because he’s a nice, respectful boy like that. And she also genuinely assumed MJ was a frigid bitch. Only the frigid part intended as an insult.

But MJ’s hand rucks the back of his shirt up to his shoulder blades; Felica can see so much of his skin, and she finds her eyes flicking back to them, curious, watching as they talk to their friends. She stretches out the conversation with Cute Blonde, discussing rising signs and moon signs as though Felicia isn’t just making shit up. She doesn’t even remember what her own chart, lovingly compiled and analyzed by Pasty and Angelica, looks like. 

She sees the group disperse. She sees MJ play a game of ping-pong with Ned. She almost asks Cute Blonde if he wants to get out of here. 

Ned and MJ win their game, high-fiving. Ned whoops and hollers, and MJ rolls her eyes, but it’s in that pleased way of hers that convinced Felicia she was frigid. 

Shuffling back to Peter, MJ leans heavily against his side. She says something, biting at her bottom lip and moving even closer to his face. He kisses her, not unchaste, and then she says something else, mouth brushing open against his. Her hand fiddles with the end of Peter’s T-shirt, and his cheeks turn pink. MJ tilts her head, doesn’t have to lean up to whisper something in his ear. 

And it’s so incredibly obvious to Felicia, AKA someone who had sex with Peter Parker and knows he likes the bite of nails against his back, that this is foreplay. 

Felicia is capable of admitting her hypothesis was wrong. 

Fine. Not frigid. 

Good for Michelle.

Sweat beads along her forehead. Her lungs ache. Every footfall feels heavy, like both her knees are one misplaced step away from cracking. But Felicia runs. She’s chased this dude countless blocks (Lie. She was counting but her brain stopped working after three), and exhaustion coats her muscles. She keeps going. 

The light changes but she runs through it.

A car honks. 

Asshole. 

She runs. And runs. And runs. 

Until Spider-Man drops down in front of her. 

Felicia runs right into him and stumbles backwards. 

“Hey there!” he says, tossing a hand back and shooting a web at the dude behind him. It catches the guy around the ankle and trips him up. “Why are we chasing that guy?”

Felicia’s head is cloudy, blood rushes in her ears, and she rests her hands on her knees. She feels like she might puke. But she knows that voice. “Peter?”

“Uh, no. I’m Spider-Man, ma’am,” Peter says, voice fake deep. 

“I’m not stupid, Peter.” Felicia inhales and pushes against her thighs to get herself upright. “I know it’s you.”

He looks around as though the streets are teeming with people at almost two in the morning and takes a step toward her, which causes the dude caught in the web to groan as he slides across the pavement. “Uh, let’s deal with him first.”

“Good idea.” Felicia rolls her eyes. 

She tells Peter the guy slipped something in a girl’s drink at the club … nine blocks away. Jesus. He riffles through the asshole’s pockets, finds a stash of little tablets and a small, unlabeled vial. Peter webs him to the side of a building, gives a lecture, and tapes a note to his chest for the police.

“What the fuck?” Felicia asks. 

“Uh, what?” Peter scratches at the back of his neck. 

“You’re Spider-Man? Boring Peter Par--”

“Hey!” His eyes widen and he flails around. “It’s not something I go around advertising, Felicia.” He stresses her name and glances at the guy behind him. 

She scoffs. But point taken. “Fine.”

She turns and starts walking back toward her apartment. 

“Hey! Wait! What’re you doing? Shouldn’t we, you know, discuss this? You’re not going to tell anybody, right?” Peter’s on her heels, yapping a mile a minute. 

“Shut up,” she says.

“Felicia, come on. This is crazy! What are _you_ doing chasing after would-be criminals? You could get hurt, and I don’t know if--”

“Fuck off.” She slows down when a red hand stares at her from the opposite end of the crosswalk, looks both ways, and continues on when she doesn’t see any cars coming. 

“Did something happen to you? Some sort of experiment or--”

“Be quiet!” Felicia hisses. She halts in the middle of the sidewalk, turning to look at him. “Why do you care?”

He blinks like his brain is trying to catch up to her. “I care that you’re okay.”

“Yeah, right.” Her heart clenches, though, sudden and annoying. 

“I do.” The white eyes of his mask widen. 

“Okay.” She exhales. “Fine. We can go somewhere and talk.”

“Fancy seeing you here.” Felica smirks, plopping down next to Peter on the roof. 

“Hey,” he mumbles, mouth filled with sandwich. He wipes his face with a napkin, at least. “How’s your night been?”

She shrugs. Doesn’t tell him about the ring she pocketed earlier. “Uneventful. Yours?”

“Yeah, the same.” 

“Got anything for me?” 

He leans over, and his grip on his sandwich tightens. Some mustard gets on his thumb, but the fabric of his suit seems to absorb it, leaving no visible stain. “Here,” he says, handing over her ham and swiss. 

“Thanks.” Carefully, she peels back enough foil to take a bite. “There’s a party at one of the frat’s tonight. We could scope it out.”

“I don’t really do that, Felicia.”

“Yeah, but there’s nothing going on out here.” She takes another bite. The sandwich is a little cold.

He looks at his phone. “I’m meeting MJ in 30 minutes.”

“That’s still happening, huh?”

“Yes.”

Felicia hums and swallows. “Does she know you play dress up and break the law?”

“I don’t break the law,” he says.

“Okay, sure.”

“Some laws are bad,” he mutters. “MJ was telling me about all these stupid laws on the books that people took time enacting when there are _actual_ things the government needs to fix! It’s illegal to dance to the national anthem here, but who is trying to dance to the national anthem, anyway?”

“Not you.” Felicia simpers. God, he’s such a dork.

“No. I can’t dance.”

“You can swing around buildings, but you’re not coordinated enough to sway back and forth?”

He shrugs. “I never really learned.”

“You seemed to do just fine with me.” His eyes cut to her, and he crushes the foil from his sandwich into a ball. “Relax, I’m not hitting on you.”

“I know.” He huffs, breath causing the curls on his forehead to flutter. 

“You’d know if I was hitting on you.”

“I know,” he laughs, tosses his garbage into his bag and wipes his hands on his thighs. 

“Does your girlfriend know you buy me sandwiches?”

“Yeah.” A beat. “You know you have to pay me back, though, right?”

She takes another bite and ignores him. 

“That was eight dollars, Felicia.”

“It’s cold, and you’re annoying.”

“You owe me eight dollars.”

“You dated me while in love with another girl. I think you can buy me a sandwich,” she says. 

He squints at her and the corners of his mouth tilt down. “Yeah, okay, fine. I'll drop it.”

Felicia rolls her eyes, wipes her fingers on her leggings and tugs her shirt collar down so she can reach into her top. Peter looks away so quickly she laughs. “Oh my god, I stuck my cash in my bra, prude.”

“Okay.” Peter scratches at the back of his neck. 

“Here.” She holds out the bills.

He shakes his head. “No, it’s fine.”

“You’re _so_ annoying.” Felicia shoves the money back in her bra and it crumples against her skin. She’s not going to fight him. This eight dollars could buy her another sandwich or a Tuesday night movie ticket. “You have to stop feeling bad about something that happened almost two years ago. You bored me, anyway.”

“I bored you?”

“Nobody wants to watch Meg Ryan fall in love with Tom Hanks that many times.”

“Those are good movies!” he squeaks.

“They’re fine.”

“MJ likes them.”

“Not that much.”

He stares at her, face splotchy and hair flopping in different directions from whenever he removed the mask laying next to him. “Wait, do you really think--”

“Jesus,” she huffs. “Yeah, but she’d do anything for your stupid dick.”

Peter frowns. “Stop talking about her like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like she’s shallow or mean or not a good person. You keep saying you don’t care, but you tear her down every chance you get. She didn’t do anything to you, Felicia, I did.”

She clenches her jaw. “You are so far up her ass it’s unreal.”

“So are you.”

“I slept with someone else two days ago, Pete. I’m fine.”

“That doesn’t mean--”

“I knew what I was doing when I dated you. I’m not some hapless girl whose heart you broke. I’m not pathetic.”

“Felicia,” he tries, voice a whisper.

It’s absolutely infuriating. “It still sucked, okay? But it wasn’t about me, right? It was never about me. And that’s what sucks the most.”

His phone vibrates in his palm. He looks down and then back up. “I don’t understand…” 

She doesn’t know what to say: _I just don’t like her, and it’s easiest to link that thought to you_ , or _I knew I wasn’t who you wanted, and not being who someone wants scrapes against my ego, still_ or _I know you were with her before those 37 days, and it feels like I never mattered at all; see previous statement about ego_ , or _I can go weeks without thinking about you, but then someone asked if you cheated on me with her, and instead of wondering if it was true, I wondered if feeling embarrassed made me a worse person than feeling hurt would have_.

“There’s nothing to understand.” She pushes up from the dirty cement, half-eaten sandwich still in her hand. 

“You meant something to me.” He clears his throat. His phone vibrates again. “You mean something to me.”

“Yeah, okay. Go watch _Sleepless in Seattle_ with MJ for the 50th time.”

“Felicia, I--” 

She holds her hand up. “I’ll stop talking shit about her. Scout’s honor.” 

“Shouldn’t we discuss this?”

“Discuss what?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, eyes wide and hurt. If anyone is hurt, it should be her.

“See you later?” he asks.

“Maybe. We’re not friends, Peter.” She shrugs. “And I’m probably still gonna talk shit about your girlfriend if the opportunity presents itself.”

True. 

This Michael kid asks her out, and Felicia goes to dinner because he’s kind of cute and smart, and why not, you know? Free food. 

She has a pretty good time, and they walk shoulder-to-shoulder down the sidewalk on their way to a bar, brushing against each other like they’re in middle school. It’s sweet for a first date, and her hands are shoved in her coat pockets anyway. 

Felicia exhales just to see her breath freeze, and she looks across the street where the ballet is letting out. 

She doesn’t mean to spot MJ, but she does. 

It doesn’t strike Felicia as odd that she’s with a guy who isn’t Peter until the guy leans down to brush a kiss against her temple and grab her hand. 

Felicia can’t see her face, but MJ’s hand is like … held uncomfortably far away from her body. 

Felicia blinks, rolls her neck, and presses her mouth into a flat line. Interesting. She almost wants to text Peter or scroll through social media for clues, but she ignores the nosy impulse. Felicia finds it’s not that difficult. Slurping down her mixed drink, slurring along to the songs in the bar, and sucking on Michael’s bottom lip prove more than adequate at holding her attention for the evening. 

Felicia’s knuckles crack against Greasy Hair’s nose. The pressure feels good. She likes how his hands fly up to grab at his face and the venom in the curse careening out of his mouth. She kicks up with her knee.

“Stop enjoying this so much,” Peter says, elbowing Acne Prone and Stocky in their stomachs.

“You wouldn’t understand.” She knees Greasy Hair, this time hitting his crotch, and his hands move away from her shoulders -- fingers digging in, and Felicia couldn’t tell whether he was trying to push her away or incapacitate her -- to his groin. 

Peter’s got Acne Prone and Stocky webbed against the alley’s wall, and Felicia digs her elbow into Greasy Hair’s spine until he collapses to his knees. 

“Felicia,” Peter says, soft but stern, hand resting against her shoulder, light, not pushing or pulling.

“You’re a guy,” she says. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“I know.” 

She elbows Greasy Hair one more time, relishing his groan. “Fine. Web him up even though the cops won’t do shit.”

“Okay.”

Peter leaves a nice little note for the police explaining that Greasy Hair, Acne Prone and Stocky were harassing a girl.

“That might work if you caught them trying to steal something, but the cops aren’t going to do anything,” Felicia repeats, annoyed.

Peter runs his hand over the top of his mask like he means to push back his hair. “I know. I just … don’t have another solution.”

She lets Peter swing her onto some roof because the feeling of the wind on her face is exhilarating in the same way some dude’s nose bleeding beneath her fist is, especially when it distracts her from the knowledge that the assholes will face no consequences besides a few hours glued to a brick wall and a couple of bruises. She didn’t even break Greasy Hair’s nose. She should’ve.

“What would you have done?” Peter asks, peeling his mask off his face. “Killed them?”

“I considered it.” She pulls her hair out of her ponytail and slides the elastic around her wrist. She runs fingers through the strands, attempting to re-instill bounce. “You wouldn’t have let me.”

“Do you mean that?”

She groans, sitting down with her back against the roof’s door. “I don’t know.”

Peter watches her, eyes narrow and lips thin. “You’re not that person,” he decides. 

“Not yet.”

“That’s not you,” he insists, taking the spot next to her. Their bodies don’t touch. 

She exhales and slides her feet forward, unfolding her legs. Felicia can feel Peter watching her. If he expects her to cry, he’s going to be disappointed. She bites her lip, pulls herself together, and looks at him. 

“Are you okay?” he asks.

God. 

He’s irritating. 

Felicia kisses him. Her balance has improved; she splays her hand over his chest in order to attempt deepening the kiss instead of needing to do it to keep from toppling over and into him. Actually, that doesn't sound half bad.

Peter kisses her back. Just for a moment. But the hand on his chest wakes him up, and he sits back. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Do you ever apologize for things that actually need it?” Felicia asks. 

He scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m sorry.” He laughs, weak and unamused. 

“MJ’s dating somebody else.”

“I know that.”

Felicia presses two fingers against her bottom lip. “Please tell me you don’t sit at home pining over her.” 

“No.” He clears his throat and looks up from the concrete, at Boston and the lights Felicia figures are similar to, but somehow remarkably different from, the ones in New York. “I’ve gone on a few dates. A couple with Johnny. You know Johnny, right?”

“Storm? Yeah, we’ve had some classes together.”

“He’s really great,” Peter says, nostalgia breaking the words. “We had a lot of fun, but I didn’t really want … It’d be great if…”

“MJ didn’t exist?” Felicia quirks an eyebrow.

“I don’t think she’s perfect,” Peter defends. “I know she’s not. But I just … it’s stupid.”

Felicia rolls her eyes. “You think she’s perfect for you. I know. You’ve made it abundantly clear.”

“I need to move on, don’t I?” His eyes droop, and his shoulders hunch forward.

Maybe it’s because seeing Peter hurt feels like his comeuppance, appearing too late for Felicia to need or want it. Maybe it’s because he thinks she’s a better person than she is, or maybe it’s something she isn’t self-aware enough to pinpoint. 

Well, she’s pretty self-aware, so it’s probably not that. 

Felicia swallows around the lump in her throat.

Truth: “She’s not into the guy she’s with.”

“What?” Peter’s voice comes out raw, like maybe he was about to cry. See? He’s the pathetic one between them. 

“I saw them out together. She isn’t into him.”

Peter blinks. “How do you know that?”

“I have eyes? I understand body language?” Felicia is a woman who has had more men than she can count on both hands refuse to accept her forceful _No_. She doesn’t try to stop robberies or help people cross the street like Peter does; she steals jewelry and makes sure girls don’t get cornered at parties. She knows. “Because the last time I saw you both together she looked like--” Felicia cuts herself off. Peter won’t appreciate how that sentence ends. “Because she’s probably still as pathetically into you as you are in love with her.”

Peter stares at Felicia, eyes wide and hopeful. He runs a hand through his hair and looks down, exhaling. “Okay. That-- that sort of makes sense, actually.”

“Yeah.” Felicia nudges his shoulder. “You gonna tell me if Johnny’s a good kisser or not?”

“No?” 

“Bad kisser? I never would have--”

“I didn’t mean--” Peter cuts her off.

“I know.” Felicia nudges him again. “I almost killed a dude tonight, so I could use a little lighthearted gossip.”

“No, uh.” Peter clears his throat. “Very good kisser.”

Felicia tilts her head and almost smiles. “Go on.”

She hears about Johnny and Peter’s three dates, pushes for details about the kissing that he never gives, and Peter does that thing people who aren’t over someone do where he tells her Johnny’s hand was warmer and larger than MJ’s, that his laugh was louder and his skin less soft. Felicia tries to steer that into sexier territory, but Peter flushes and doesn’t give anything. How dull. 

She reciprocates, telling him about her date with Michael. 

He encourages her to give Michael another chance.

Felicia decides to consider it.

Okay, so, she gives Michael another chance. He likes her. He likes to go out with her, and he always has minty fresh breath. 

His arm hangs around her shoulders as they walk back to his place from the library. The sun is high, and the breeze is soothing. Felicia spots Peter and MJ sitting in the grass outside, blanket spread and textbooks open -- well, Peter has a textbook and MJ has a regular, easy book. 

Felicia watches MJ shift so she lies on the blanket, head by Peter’s knee and book above her. Peter says something, looks down, and touches her head. He brushes some hair away or wipes at some fake dirt or something; touching her just for the sake of it. 

It makes Felicia think they’re still in the not-together-but-wanting-to-be relm that’ll be a bitch for Rich Dude Who Likes MJ. Felicia knows who he is now. He hit on her once sophomore year. It was not pleasant.

MJ sticks her finger in her book, marks her spot and closes it. Whatever she says makes Peter smile down at her, soft and small and sublime. He leans forward, down. 

Yeah, not to take all the credit, but Peter and MJ owe her like, their entire relationship.

Probably not true.

Whatever.


	2. Harry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What really bugs Harry: the signs of a shared life, the apartment lived in, cozy and presented without filter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't spoil _Far From Home_ in the comments! This was written before it came out, so there is zero reason to do so. Thank you for your cooperation during this stressful time!

Harry spots MJ in the crowd at graduation. 

She sits next to a woman who sits next to Pepper Potts who sits next to Tony Stark who sits next to Happy Hogan. Harry knows the woman he doesn’t recognize is probably Peter’s aunt. Peter’s aunt turns around to say something to someone sitting directly behind her, and Harry’s vision expands. Ned’s family, he presumes; two parents and three sisters. 

His gaze doesn’t drift back to MJ like it’s a choice. The pull of her is too much for him to resist. He figures that’s how he spotted her in the crowd in the first place. 

Harvard’s graduation was two weeks ago, but Harry isn’t surprised she’s here and not back in NYC. She posted a picture from her own ceremony with Peter, Ned and, if Harry were able to look closer, the woman she currently sits with.

He wonders if MJ’s parents attended her ceremony. He doesn’t think the lack of picture is a clue. 

He wonders if she feels anything when he walks across the stage to shake the president's hand, receive his diploma holder, and move his tassel. 

As Harry retakes his seat, the urge to look at MJ persists. He turns his head in time to see her cup her hands around her mouth and scream when Peter’s name is called. 

Shifting through the crowd, Harry heads toward the place he and his father decided to meet. They’re grabbing an early dinner, and then his dad is driving to the airport for a business meeting in France. Expanding Oscorp worldwide is the goal, and Harry wouldn’t bet against his father. Every time he’s ever even thought about it, he’s lost. 

Between dodging the mingling students and stopping to fistbump part-time friends, it takes almost 30 minutes for Harry to arrive at the meeting point. By the time his dad’s graying hair comes into view, he’s conversing with Tony Stark and Happy Hogan. 

Harry removes his graduation cap and runs a hand through his hair, attempting to fix it. 

He clears his throat.

He hears MJ laugh. 

Turning his head, he sees her taking a picture of Peter, Ned, Peter’s aunt and Ned’s parents. 

“Peter, smile,” she instructs. 

“I am.” His attempt is visibly uncomfortable, and his mouth doesn’t curve up into anything, just teeth and overly wide eyes. 

His aunt leans forward, their arms still around each other. “That’s how he smiles, MJ.”

“The picture will look bad.”

“Come on, just take it,” Peter sighs.

“We can fix it in post,” Ned adds.

She lifts the phone in her hand. “Not possible.”

Harry watches her take the same picture on three different devices, and then Peter’s aunt grins, rushing forward to pry the most recent phone out of MJ’s grasp. “Your turn.”

“No, thanks.” MJ smiles, tight and small.

Peter’s aunt laughs, pushes gently on MJ’s arm, and waves her toward Peter and Ned. “Over there, sweetie.” MJ listens, but Harry sees the aborted roll of her eyes. “Get between the boys. It’ll balance the photo.”

Harry watches, transfixed. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, pulled away from her face with clips. He knows she did her makeup because of the almost-invisible lipstick smeared across her mouth. Her dress swishes around her knees, and the neckline curves beneath her collarbones. She’s still Harry’s fantasy girl, and it’s even worse that he knows, intimately, what her neck smells like and the feel of hands on his hips. Holy fuck, he needs to get laid. 

Ned and MJ smile. Peter allegedly does his best to do the same.

“Can we eat now?” Peter asks before moving his mouth around and stretching his jaw. 

Peter’s aunt glances at her watch. “Our reservation isn’t for another hour. Let me get some candids.”

The trio glance at each other, baffled, arms still connecting them in a line.

Ned laughs first. “Remember in high school when Peter fell asleep and we drew all over his face?”

“Hey!” Peter protests. “I had ‘loser’ written on my forehead for three days.”

“At least it was accurate,” MJ says. 

“Everything else washed off,” Ned adds.

“Because you guys didn’t use--” Peter pauses, eyes shifting around the still bustling athletics center, “a _special_ marker for everything else.”

“We wanted to make sure everybody got the memo.” MJ shrugs. Her hands have dropped from around both the boys, and she turns toward Ned. “The goatee you drew was exceptional.” 

“Thanks. The real crowning glory was the line of flowers you drew on his forehead, though. The shading? _Dude_.”

“Crowning glory,” MJ repeats, shaking her head as one end of her mouth tugs up. “Good one.”

“Thanks! _And_ we did it all while his nose kept pinching.”

“Scrunching,” MJ clarifies, voice dipping too fondly for Harry’s liking. 

“ _Loser_. Three days,” Peter interjects.

“We love you.” Ned grins.

“I need to find friends who don’t take advantage of me during vulnerable times.”

MJ scoffs. “That was four years ago, nerd.”

“Last week I fell asleep on the couch, and you and Ned stuck my hand in a glass of water to see if I’d actually piss myself!”

“It didn’t work,” Ned says, waving him off.

“That’s not the point.” 

“You’re not really upset,” MJ says. 

“A little bit, yeah.”

“We’ll let you take our turns picking for movie night. Whatever you want,” Ned offers.

“No,” MJ responds flatly. 

“Why not? That’s a good compromise!” 

“I’m not watching the _Star Wars_ prequels again.”

“They’re not _that_ bad,” Ned says.

MJ squints. “You’re just saying that because you and Peter like to sing that Weird Al song ad nauseam.” 

“Maybe vader someday later…” Ned half-sings as his left eyebrow arches. 

“No.”

“Now he’s just a small fry,” Peter continues, off-key and awful. 

MJ rounds on him, emphasizing with a point of her finger: “Don’t you dare.”

“He left his home and kissed his mommy goodbye,” Peter and Ned sing together. Ned’s voice is nice, perfectly gliding along the notes, even acapella. Peter’s voice scratches, causing Harry to grind his teeth.

MJ slaps her hand over Peter’s mouth and glares at Ned. “This is only a punishment for me. It was your idea to stick his hand in a glass of water.”

“It was _you_!”

“Tattletale!”

Peter mumbles something against MJ’s hand, but Harry can’t hear it. Two girls nearby shriek in his ear, and a family mumbles ‘Excuse me’ as they shuffle around him toward the exit. Harry shifts to see his dad still talking with Tony Stark and Happy Hogan. He clears his throat, fidgets with the cap in his hand and walks over. He nods. “Hi Dad. Mr. Stark. Mr. Hogan.”

Tony and Happy congratulate him, and his father follows suit. 

Mr. Starks asks what Harry’s plans are now that he’s graduated, and it feels good and weird to explain working for his father. Harry’s stomach knots, but he’s had plenty of practice schmoozing people. Tony seems to like him well enough, even if he doesn’t laugh at the forced joke Harry tries to tell about all-night study sessions. Happy takes that as his cue to walk away. 

Pepper Potts slides next to Tony with a kind, apologetic smile on her face. “I’m sorry, but we have a lunch reservation we should be getting to.”

“Yes, of course,” Harry’s dad says. “Sorry to keep you.”

“Oh, no. It’s fine. May and Chesa would be here for another hour taking pictures if we’d let them.” Pepper glances at Harry. “Hi, you must be Harold.”

“Harry,” he corrects, offering his hand. He wants to remind her they’ve met before, but he doesn’t.

“Right, of course.” She shakes his hand, up-and-down twice. 

“See you next month, Norman,” Tony adds, patting Harry’s dad on the back and taking Pepper’s hand. “Good to meet you, Harry.”

“You, too,” Harry says, voice more confident and smooth than he feels.

His eye-line follows the short path they walk. Peter’s aunt speaks with Happy and Ned’s mother from where she’s crouched down. Both women have their phones up, still focused on taking photos of Ned and his sisters. Happy shifts his weight as though he’s thinking about bending his knees to help them achieve the right angle. 

Harry finds Peter and MJ a rock’s skip to the left. MJ’s finger swipes over Peter’s fucked up brow. Harry can’t see her face, but he knows they’re standing too close for it to be casual. 

It’s been a little over three weeks since she broke up with him because she’s in love with Peter. He wants to believe they’re not back together. 

A little over three weeks. That’s no time at all. 

His chest burns.

They’re back together. 

It’s a month, exactly, since MJ broke up with Harry. 

He’s at the bar with Roger, careening over the line of drunk into obliterated. MJ and fucking Parker are sitting at a booth with some of MJ’s Harvard friends. Harry squints. Their arms are pressed together, but there’s a visible space between Peter and Neha. 

MJ drinks some water, Peter says something, and she nudges the glass toward him. He takes a sip. MJ watches, bottom lip pulled lightly into her mouth. Harry can’t see her swallow, and he can’t see her eyes track over Peter’s face, but he knows she does and they do, somehow, in the splintered cracks of his heart. 

She leans toward Peter, covering her mouth as she whispers something into his ear that makes him freeze. Peter looks at MJ, and Harry doesn’t spend enough time on his face to analyze his expression because he’s too busy looking at MJ. The want in her eyes isn’t love; it’s something more carnal. 

Harry realizes, head fuzzy and eyes blurry, that she never looked at him like that. Not once. 

He knew MJ didn’t love him, but knowing that she never even wanted him hurts in a new, bruising way. The lack of marks left on his body not simply because she’s above such displays of want and possession, but because she never felt it. 

Love was a big ask, lust was easier, and Harry thought he had coaxed it out of her. 

Apparently not. 

He watches her nod, two slow times, and then turn back toward the rest of her friends. 

Harry orders another drink. 

“Shit,” Roger says, stumbling into the counter as he returns from the bathroom. “There’s a girl over there eyeing you.” 

Roger points with no subtlety, and Harry looks. The girl is cute, not hot, and has curly blonde hair. Harry would go to her if his brain wasn’t melting. She’s the type of girl he’d take home to accompany the whiskey burning through his blood and help him forget MJ. But MJ’s on the other end of the room, glued to Peter’s side, laughing at something somebody in her booth said, and Harry can’t. 

“No. She’s not my type.”

Roger scoffs. “Into you should be your type.”

Harry takes another sip of his drink. 

“I’m leaving,” Roger decides, clapping Harry’s shoulder too hard. “This girl on Tinder wants to hook up.”

“Good luck.” Harry holds out his hand for the fistbump he knows is coming.

“Peace.” 

Roger blurs by Harry, whose eyes go straight back to MJ. 

He could help it if he wasn’t drunk, if it had been two months since she dumped him instead of one, and if he wanted to. 

Her arm still brushes against Peter’s as she fiddles with a napkin or coaster on the table. Her eyes flick down before going back to her friends. She laughs, and Harry spots the faux annoyance in her eyes. Her mouth barely opens to speak, and her wrist nudges against the beer bottle placed halfway between Parker and herself.

Peter picks it up, seemingly finishing it. MJ watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

Harry downs the rest of his whiskey. 

He blanks for a minute, watching the flat line of MJ’s mouth before his phone buzzes. Roger’s sent him pictures of Tinder girl. Harry swipes through them. 

When he looks up, Peter and MJ are standing. Her friends hug them before sliding back into the booth as Parker’s arm slides around MJ’s waist. Harry grimaces, and anger shoots hot up his spine. He blinks. Peter leans close and says something; the result: MJ biting into her bottom lip, crooked tooth visible. 

Harry exhales, leaning back to keep his gaze steady as they walk around a group of people congregating near the bar. 

He bends too far and loses his balance. Harry flails, reaching for the counter to catch himself, but his brain sloshes and his reflexes slow. He vaguely hears the clattering of the stool and vaguely feels the thudding of his body against the floor. He grimaces, groans, and glances up. 

Because this couldn’t be any more embarrassing, MJ and Peter stop and stare down at him.

“Are you okay?” Peter asks. His arm is still around MJ’s waist, hand gripping her hip. 

“Fine.” Harry sits up. His head spins, so he closes his eyes. 

“Are you alone?” MJ asks, her voice monotone like she doesn’t care either way. Harry can’t decide if that’s better than pity. 

He blinks, blinks, blinks. “His arm is around your waist.”

MJ’s eyes narrow, and when Harry looks again, Peter’s hand has dropped from her hip. 

Harry senses another patron righting the stool he tipped over as Peter bends down to help him up. “Come on, we’ll call an Uber.”

“I’m fine,” Harry protests, elbowing at Peter and scrambling to get his feet underneath his body. He pushes off the floor and wobbles, knees bending without his permission, but he stands. Harry straightens up. He’s taller than Peter, and he puffs out his chest. “See?”

MJ sighs and shakes her head, leaning against the counter to ask the bartender if Harry’s settled. Once his tab is closed, she tilts her head toward the door. “Come on.”

Harry turns too quickly and grabs onto MJ’s forearm to steady himself. Peter materializes at his side and places Harry’s other arm around his shoulder. MJ looks back and glares, twisting her arm out of Harry’s grasp before doing the same as Peter.

“Come on, buddy,” Parker says, voice soft like he thinks Harry has a headache. Dumbass. 

“We’re not buddies,” Harry snaps, attempting to pull away and leaning the majority of his weight onto MJ. She grunts and shoves him at her … boyfriend. Probably. Fucking dick. 

“Shut up, Harry,” MJ says, removing his arm from around her shoulders with more force than necessary. 

Maybe he said that last part out loud.

She pushes open the door before pulling her phone out of her pocket. “I deserve a medal,” she grits.

Harry steps away from Peter and rests against the brick of the bar. It’s a hot and humid night, oppressive, and his light button-up sticks to his skin. 

MJ huffs, blowing a curl off her forehead. Harry gets a clear look at her, up close, for the first time tonight: hair pulled back loosely at the nape of her neck, worn T-shirt, shorts, and the scuffed up Converse he’d always see by her apartment’s front door. “You look nice,” he offers. 

Her jaw ticks. She glances at him before making eye contact with Peter. “The car is three minutes away.”

“Okay.” Peter nods and shoves his hands into his pockets. 

“So, you guys are back together?” Harry asks, eyes shifting between them.

“Uh.” Peter scratches at the back of his neck, shuffling away from the door when a group of giggling girls exit.

“Yes,” MJ says. 

“Pretty fucked up,” Harry responds, directing the statement to Peter. 

“Let’s just shove him in the car and call another for us,” MJ says. 

“We can’t, Em. He’s drunk.”

“He’s a six foot rich dude whose building has a doorman. I think he’ll be fine.”

“We’ll just get him inside, and then we’ll go back to yours. An extra 20 minutes. Tops,” Peter promises. There’s an undercurrent to his voice that Harry can’t place, but he knows he doesn't like it. 

MJ focuses on Peter, her mouth tight and twisted. Peter tilts his head, and like a magic trick, her eyes soften, shoulders loosening as she reaches across the space between them to grab Peter’s wrist and pull him to her. “Fine.”

“Okay.” Peter smiles, small and kind, and MJ presses her lips together like she’s afraid she’ll break out into a splitting grin if she lets herself. 

Harry swallows. His mouth is dry. 

He’s about to ask when this happened. He’s narrowed it down between the day before MJ officially ended things with him and the handful of days after. All of it feels too close. Like Parker was just waiting for Harry to fuck up so he could swoop in and steal MJ away. 

Harry knows, logically, that it didn’t happen that way. But it’s true enough. Peter never gave her space, never encouraged her to move on, and hovered in her ear whenever Harry made a mistake. 

Before the thoughts in his brain manage to cannonball off his heavy tongue, a car pulls up. MJ pulls out her phone, unlocks it, thumbprint and passcode, and goes around to double check the license plate. “This is it.”

Harry stumbles into the car.

“Michelle?” The driver asks. 

Harry blinks. Peter slides in next. MJ’s fingers are intertwined with his. Her other hand rests on the doorframe, leaning down and starting to climb in, only her arm and head past the threshold. “Yea--”

“I thought you hated PDA,” Harry interrupts. “Why does he get to put his arm around you?”

MJ grinds her teeth. Harry sees Peter squeeze her hand. “I’m not getting in a car with him,” she decides.

“MJ, please.”

“No. He’s an asshole.”

Peter glances at Harry, so Harry tears through the cobwebs in his brain to offer his two cents: “She said it’s annoying and possessive, so she must think you’re annoying and poss--”

“Shut up, asshole,” MJ says, finally sparing Harry a passing glance. The cuss curls like it’s Harry’s name, and her tone remains nonchalant but venomous. Her eyes are black, and her cheeks are pink. She swallows, attention drifting back to Peter. “He’ll be fine.”

Peter hesitates. “I’ll go with him. I’ll meet you back at your place. 20 minutes.”

MJ presses her mouth together, shooting daggers at Harry with her eyes. She leans down and kisses Peter. It’s chaste and habitual. Harry remembers: one month. Habitual.

“If it takes more than an hour, I’m calling the cops. I’ll vouch for you if you’ve murdered him.”

“How can you be my alibi if you’re the one who called the police?” Peter laughs.

“I’m not mentioning you in the call, just directing them towards Harry’s dead body. You were with my friends at the bar. You’ve been with me all night.” 

“Of course. Right.” Peter reaches up and cups her cheek in his palm, thumb running over the bone. “See you soon.”

“You better.” MJ makes eye contact with the driver through the rearview mirror. “Sorry.”

She pulls her head out of the car, drops Peter’s hand and closes the door. Peter waves at her, so Harry does, too, and the driver pulls away from the curb. 

“She’s pretty,” Harry whispers, leaning his head back against the seat.

“Very.”

“You don’t deserve her.”

“I know,” Peter agrees. 

Harry’s head swims, and he closes his eyes to settle the nausea swirling around his stomach. “She cheated on me, didn’t she?”

“No! No, she would never do that.”

“Whatever.” He’s not sure why he asked Parker. He doesn’t believe at least 70% of what he says, anyway. “Doesn’t matter. She wanted to.”

Peter doesn’t respond, so Harry cracks an eye open. Peter sits with his back uncomfortably straight, seat buckled like a loser, staring out the window. 

“She’s a fucking bitch,” Harry mutters. 

Peter tenses, jaw clenching and hands curled into fists on his thighs. 

Harry hates him. 

He thinks he hates MJ, too. He never let himself before, too concerned with being in love with her to blame her for anything. She repeatedly warned him that she didn’t feel the way he did, and he didn’t care. But caring crashes into his overheated skin, and the alcohol ignites the anger in his blood. He hates her. She used him, and dropped him, and now fucking Parker gets to hold her hand, gets to have her look at him like she wants to devour him whole. Everything Harry wanted but never really had. 

“Fucking cunt.”

Peter’s head snaps to look at Harry, and his fists tighten in his lap. “I swear to god,” he grits out. 

He pauses, exhaling through his nose. His eyes are dark, his face drenched in shadow, and Harry sinks back, terrified. “Maybe she didn’t want you to touch her because you think …” Another pause that drips with judgment. “You think that.”

The car slows into a turn, and Harry has to brace himself so he doesn’t topple sideways. He closes his eyes and swallows around the bile at the base of his throat. 

He hates her. 

He misses her.

He’d take her back in less than a heartbeat. 

When the car stops and Peter unlocks his door, Harry blinks his eyes open. Peter tries to help him out, but Harry’s fine. He’s gotten back to his place while drunk more times than he can count. It’s insulting and condescending that Peter is with him now. Like he’s trying to rub salt in the wound.

He got the girl. What’s the point?

Peter finally seems to get the hint, leaving Harry with the doorman and apologizing to him on Harry’s behalf. Dick.

Harry tries to think of something that’ll make a knife twist in Peter’s gut, but he can’t focus on anything. 

The knife twists in Harry’s back instead.

Harry can’t help himself. 

He tracks her life through social media, careful not to like any of her posts for fear that she’ll realize he still follows her and block him to rectify the situation. 

She takes pictures of the small apartment she and Peter rent when they move back to New York the July after graduation. Harry could buy her a penthouse suite on the Upper East Side. It would be spacious; she’d have her own walk-in closet, a large jacuzzi tub, and a breakfast nook where she could read in the morning, nibble on toast and sip earl grey tea. Something worthy of pictures to swipe through on Instagram. 

Instead, there’s a kitchen with barely any counter space, an old toaster and microwave taking up half of it. The cabinets are painted white and starting to peel. The bit of the refrigerator she captures appears outdated. The living room has the sofa from her Cambridge apartment, except it stretches across the entire space, barely leaving enough room for the one end table crammed next to it. Three books are stacked onto said table, along with two glasses and one ceramic mug. Her TV sits in the corner. The bathroom looks cramped with its shower-tub combination, a sink with enough counter space for one tube of toothpaste, one plastic cup with two toothbrushes, soap and a bottle of contact solution. 

The bedroom follows along the same, tiny vein: one bed, two nightstands. They occupy the entire wall. MJ’s pictures show a dresser, a bookcase, and a mirror hanging over the back of a door. She owns so many books. It’s a shame her apartment only fits a handful. 

Harry could buy her a place with a large room dedicated to being her own, personal library. 

But that’s missing the point. Harry knows that. MJ and Peter both undoubtedly have good jobs. MJ’s parents are rich, and she probably has a trust fund tucked away. 

They could have a nicer apartment, if not a huge one. 

What really bugs Harry about the pictures is the whiteboard he can see stuck on the fridge. He zooms in to read _Need milk._ in MJ’s slanted, boxy scrawl, and the answering _got it!_ in Peter’s scratchier handwriting. _Thanks, nerd_ , and then, Peter: _love u xox_ , followed by: _Stop taking spa_ \-- next line _whiteboard_ , and underneath, smaller, still MJ: _Love you, too._ What really bugs Harry is Peter napping on the sofa in the living room, socked feet settled on one of the armrests. The kind of men’s shampoo that was in MJ’s bathroom when Harry dated her, visible on the wire rack hanging over the showerhead. A drawing of Peter in MJ’s signature style framed on one of the nightstands in the bedroom.

What really bugs Harry: the signs of a shared life, the apartment lived in, cozy and presented without filter.

MJ and Peter live together for a year, and in the midst of it, Harry dates a girl named Mikala who doesn’t pick up a book the entire four months they’re together. Harry skims some of the articles MJ posts on Facebook, rolls his eyes at the annoying _orange you glad i didn’t say banana?_ reply Peter leaves in response to a tweet MJ sends out about the pitiful fruit section at the market, and he stares too long at the candid of her laughing, nose scrunched and mouth open in a way that shouldn’t be as attractive to him as it is. 

Then, MJ goes to law school at Stanford. 

Harry thinks this is it. 

MJ and Peter couldn’t survive college, and he doubts they can survive three years of long distance. Awfully, selfishly, still clinging with blunt nails to something that meant next to nothing to her, he hopes they don’t make it. Maybe they’ll break up, Harry will accidentally run into her, and she’ll give him another chance. A close friend of his father’s is a tenured professor at Stanford, after all. 

MJ doesn’t advertise her relationship with Peter often. She’ll post embarrassing videos or pictures of him on her Instagram story, or share a picture of the two of them with his aunt or Ned on Facebook. They spent a few days upstate with her Aunt Anna during the holidays, and Harry’s never seen so many pictures of Peter on MJ’s feed: baking with her Aunt, dusting of flour on both their noses, lighting the menorah, wearing an askew Santa hat, herself and Peter sitting at her Aunt’s table, wine glasses and Monopoly set out in front of them.

When she goes to Stanford, Harry half-follows her pages, randomly scanning for changes in her posting habits when he has whiskey for blood and the moon becomes the sun. He searches for signs that she and Peter ended things, amicably or not, it doesn’t make much of a difference to him. 

Then, in March, he opens up her Instastory. A plethora of dashes line the top, and her face is shadowed in the dark of her room. MJ speaks to the camera: “So, Peter flew out for the weekend because he’s absurdly attached.” She raises an eyebrow and twists her mouth, suggesting she finds him embarrassing and there’s nothing she can do about it. 

Flipping the camera, MJ shows Peter sprawled across her small, twin-sized bed, mouth slightly agape and hair sticking up in every direction. “It’s ten, and he’s passed out and drooling on my pillow.” She zooms in on his face. Harry hears her exasperated exhale, and she pokes Peter’s cheek with her finger. “Guess he’s kind of cute, though.”

Her story cuts, and the time listed shows that filming resumed around ten minutes later. The camera is aimed up at her face. “Ew, stop that.”

“You filmed me first,” Peter says. His voice is lower and scratchier than Harry remembers. 

MJ frowns. “Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m your baby.”

“Get out,” MJ deadpans. She shifts, the camera shakes, and Harry hears Peter laughing and apologizing. “I’m serious. Get out.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Peter says. The camera moves again so MJ’s face occupies half of the screen. The other half is all black. Her eyes are dark and dilated, a soft glow from what Harry presumes to be a lamp casting her in warm shadow. “I’ll make it up to you.”

She hums, the camera wobbles, and Harry can tell they’re tucked against each other on the bed. “Throw away that gross pair of sweatpants with all the holes.”

“I only wear them in the apartment,” he protests. The phone tilts down so only a quarter of MJ’s face is visible.

“Then buy me a cat.”

“I thought you couldn’t have pets here?”

“I can if they don’t know.”

“Em, you’re gonna be a lawyer,” Peter says, dropping the phone so the screen blanks. His voice becomes muffled. “You can’t start your career by breaking the law.”

“I can’t if you don’t buy me a cat.”

“Fine. I’ll throw out the sweatpants if you agree--” he stops, lifting the phone. His face comes into view. “Oh, shit. I forgot about--”

“You idio--” MJ whispers, voice laced with amused fondness.

But that’s all there is. 

Peter ended the video and posted it.

They don’t break up.

Harry learns that being apart only means MJ lets more affection slip through on social media. 

He learns that he’s had it wrong this entire time. 

He unfollowed Peter when he started dating MJ during senior year. It seemed unnecessary, and Harry didn’t want Parker’s stupid pictures and comments clogging his feed. Peter’s account was locked back then, but Harry stumbles upon it, unlocked, after he notices that MJ’s back in New York for her penultimate law school spring break. Peter’s Instagram is where the content lives: pictures of MJ flipping Peter off, images of her smiling but clearly annoyed at the camera shoved in her face, hand up to block it, shots of her with her head down and hair in her eyes as she scribbles something, feet tucked underneath herself on the sofa. 

There’s one blurry picture where MJ’s nose presses against Peter’s cheek, the edge of her smile visible, and her face a soft pink that Harry doesn’t believe is the product of a filter. Peter’s laughing, face scrunched up and grin uninhibited. His horrible caption reads: _BAE: better at everything!!!_

It makes Harry’s heart beat bloody and raw in his stomach, but it has nothing on MJ’s comment:   
_True, so I’ll let this slide, but I’m breaking up with you if you do it again. Love you, idiot._ Peter’s reply reads _love you 2_ , and MJ corrected: _Love you, too*_. Peter’s follow up of _Love you most!!!_ is tacky and gross.

Harry knows MJ rolled her eyes, and Harry knows she loved the comment, too.

She never wanted that kind of stupid affection, at least not from him. It doesn’t fit with the persona she projects. She gives Peter crap for it, but she lets him do it, anyway. 

She loves it. 

She loves him. 

Harry doesn’t know why. 

Well, that’s not true. 

From the lack of affection her parents seem to have for her, to the affection Peter showers on her even as she pretends to hate it, to the overprotective energy he threw at Harry during senior year, to the way Peter never miscalculated anything during their entire internship, to the muscles that MJ might be secretly shallow enough to let herself be influenced by, Harry can parse out why she loves Parker. 

The thing Harry can’t get beyond is that he could have complimented her more if she had wanted that. He had wanted to hold her hand and kiss her for everybody to see, he got into MIT, too, did the same internship as Peter and could have gone to the gym more often.

She just didn’t want him.

He wasn’t enough. 

It feels like a common theme. 

Peter’s account locks again. 

And then, finally, Harry unfollows MJ. 

But not before he sees her law school graduation pictures. Peter’s there, along with Ned, her aunt, Peter’s aunt, and even her parents. 

Not before he sees that Peter bought her a cat.

Not before she discovers she’s allergic to cats. 

Not before Harry scrolls two posts down his feed and sees a picture of her flipping off the camera at some brunch place she’s been to before -- someone has always tagged her in the pictures; she’s never posted them herself. 

There’s a small diamond on her left ring finger, clearly visible even if the bird is an attempt to distract from it. It probably isn’t, because she wrote: _I said, “I guess.”_

Peter commented: _Love u 2, fiancee!_ , and MJ replied: _Love you, too, loser._

Harry used to feel an angry and destructive fire ignite inside his stomach at the thought of MJ and Peter. He drank too much, slept with too many women for all the wrong reasons: their hair curled like MJ’s, they were approximately her height, one girl rolled her eyes at him and he liked that. But it’s burnt out. He’s tired. 

She’s getting married, and he was just somebody she fucked to fill the space between Peter dumping her and taking her back. 

Harry reads the congratulatory comment from Peter’s Aunt: _Remember when you asked me for the ring, and I had to pretend I couldn’t find it because Peter already had it? :)_ , and Ned’s response: _classic!!!_ He sees that Cara has sent her love. 

(Cara’s Instagram is where Harry will unwittingly find a picture of MJ and Peter dancing on a rooftop at their wedding. Her Facebook is where he’ll see a photo of all three of them and Cara’s new girlfriend out to dinner.)

Harry unfollows MJ.

Her account is locked. 

There’s an obvious, trite metaphor. 

She would hate it.


	3. Gwen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It beats underneath Gwen’s skin -- missing Michelle and missing Peter. She feels these emotions should be mutually exclusive. They aren’t._

Asking Peter not to immediately return to the cafeteria with Michelle the day after he and Gwen break up seems like a good idea. Gwen doesn’t want to see him glancing fondly at Michelle while she sticks her nose in her latest book. She doesn’t want to further confirm what she already knows: Michelle stopped eating with them because of Gwen, and with Gwen out of the equation, she’ll slide into the seat across from Peter at their table, and it’ll be like nothing changed at all. 

Except Ned comes up to Gwen’s locker during passing period. “Hey, sorry about you and Peter.”

“Yeah, me too.” Gwen pulls out her lunch bag and closes the door a bit too forcefully. “How is he?”

“Sad.”

“Oh.”

“It’s okay,” Ned rushes, nodding his head too many times. “He’ll be okay. He just wasn’t expecting it, I don’t think.”

“Okay.” Gwen swallows. She doesn’t know what to say. The urge to apologize to Ned flutters uncomfortably in her gut, but she’s certain she did the right thing. It hurt too much, and she wasn’t going to wait forever for Peter to trust her. 

“I don’t want this to sound mean, but do you have anyone to sit with at lunch?”

Gwen blinks and her fingers crush the fabric of her reusable lunch bag. She feels chips break underneath her palm. “Oh. I don’t know. I was thinking Cindy, Betty and I could discuss our statistics homework or something.”

“I can sit with you, if you want,” Ned offers.

“You don’t have to do that.” Gwen smiles a tight, small thing. She doesn’t want him to feel like he has to come to the cafeteria and sit with her when he’d probably rather be with his best friends in the library. Ned stayed with her many times when her boyfriend -- ex-boyfriend, she reminds herself -- didn’t even bother. 

“If you’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Positive.”

“Okay.” Ned looks at Gwen, lips pursed. He leans forward and gives her a hug. It’s awkward. She tenses, arms going around his waist a beat too late. “If you ever need me, I’ll be around.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs into his shoulder, squeezing closer as she settles into the embrace, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. 

He means that he is going to try and remain her friend. Gwen thinks he’ll make a good and solid effort. Ned is kind and funny, and he brings a lightness that Gwen relates to, but Peter is his best friend. 

She’s seen how break-ups work on television and in film, and even if he doesn’t mean to, he’ll choose Peter. 

Peter doesn’t look at her in AP chem. He sits next to Gwen at the table they decided to share the last week of August when her anger at being lied to hadn’t yet peaked. He leans on his forearms, hunched forward and body rigid. Gwen only looks at him from the corner of her eye. She sees the awkward blush dusting his skin, the thin line of his mouth, and she senses the jiggling of his leg against his chair. 

She is too aware of her breathing, worried it’ll be too loud. That he can hear her heart beating uncomfortably in her chest. 

Luckily, there’s no lab today, and they can scribble their notes while the teacher lectures, Gwen tilting away so their elbows don’t touch. 

She has European history with Michelle. 

They sit next to each other in the second row, almost friends but not quite, just like they’ve been since Gwen realized Michelle’s in love with Peter and Michelle started avoiding her. 

They carry on the same way they have all semester, sending each other polite smiles, Gwen working up the courage to ask Michelle what she got for question number four when they fill out worksheets in class, and Michelle asking to copy her notes when she misses a day and finds that Sally’s aren’t as organized or detailed as she’d like. 

It’s okay, and the ache of missing her pulses sometimes, just as seeing Peter in the hallway sits heavy in Gwen’s stomach, making her lungs feel too small. It’s not constant. It fades and re-emerges when Michelle asks Mr. McCormick why European history is a separate class from world history, as though Europe isn’t part of the rest of the world, as if the rest of the world doesn’t have enough history to fill individual courses. 

No attempts to fix whatever broke between them are made until they’re paired up for a class presentation on the Franco-Prussian war. 

“So,” Michelle starts, readjusting the stack of books in her arms. “Do you want to meet at the library after school?”

“Yeah. We could walk together?”

“Oh. Right.”

“I’ll meet you at your locker?”

“Sure.” Michelle nods, folds her lips in, and turns, exiting the classroom. 

Friday means half the students sprint out of the building, jump-starting their weekend the moment the clock strikes 2:45. The other half linger, ensuring they have everything they need from their lockers, laughing with their friends, stress melting away with the time the weekend affords. 

When Gwen rounds the corner, students streaming by her toward the side door, she can’t see Michelle at her locker. But as the bodies clear, she spots Peter. His hair is too long, flopping over his forehead and into his eyes. Unfortunately, Gwen’s brain provides the memory of running her fingers through said hair when they used to make out. 

It stops her in her tracks.

A group that was congregated on the other side of the hallway departs, and Gwen sees Ned there, too, eyebrows jumping and hands waving around excitedly. 

Michelle turns, hand stilled inside her locker. Her eyebrow arches as she says something.

Peter laughs, abrupt and loud, a snort of a thing, and he immediately clamps his hand over his mouth. His shoulders heave. Ned laughs, too, quieter, drowned out by Peter.

Michelle smiles at him, and Gwen can see the calculated way it drops to something more casual than the reality of it, masking her joy and keeping it from being too obvious or too vulnerable. 

It beats underneath Gwen’s skin -- missing Michelle and missing Peter. She feels these emotions should be mutually exclusive. They aren’t.

Ned smacks Peter’s arm, and Gwen exhales, attempting to calm the storm in her stomach.

“...mean to get caught,” Ned says, exasperated. 

“Get caught doing what?” Gwen asks, tugging on the strings of her backpack. 

“Uh, nothing?” Ned glances at Peter and Michelle. “Sneaking out past curfew?”

Gwen squints. 

“We have to work on our European history project,” Michelle says.

“Hi,” Peter greets belatedly, making brief eye contact with Gwen before turning back toward Michelle. “You’ll still come by later?” Peter asks, and Gwen feels it, uncomfortable and green in her gut. 

Two months, and she’s mostly averted her gaze if she spots them together in the hallway. They haven’t come back to the cafeteria during lunch, even though Ned sometimes sits with Gwen, Betty, and the rest of their friends. 

He mentions Michelle and Peter in passing sometimes, but never in the same sentence. 

She wonders how long is too long to avoid them, if it’s still helpful or just bandaging a scrape that needs exposure to air to scab over. 

Michelle wasn’t even the root of the problem; a branch, maybe, but that’s it. 

“Sure,” Michelle says, placing her pencil case on top of the books in her bag. She lifts her knee, resting her near-bursting backpack against her thigh and zipping it up, eyebrows furrowed with effort. “Is May cooking?”

“Allegedly,” Peter says. “So, Pizza or Thai?” 

“Pizza!” Ned says.

“Thai,” Michelle answers.

Ned and Michelle look at each other. “Thai is fine. That’s what May will want,” Ned relents. 

“Cool.” Peter wipes his hands on his jeans. He glances at Gwen again, eyes flitting and fingers fidgeting. “I uh, I hope your project goes good.”

“Well,” Michelle corrects.

“Right. Well.” Peter runs a hand through his hair. 

“Come on, Peter. We got a thing,” Ned says, reaching across Gwen’s body to grab his friend’s arm. “See you later, Gwen.”

“Later.”

“MJ.” Ned nods. 

“Bye,” Peter says, waving awkwardly and trailing behind Ned. 

“Bye,” MJ answers, shutting her locker. “Library?”

“Library,” Gwen agrees. 

Michelle throws out ideas and facts as though she has their textbook chapter memorized. Gwen wouldn’t be surprised if she does. It also sounds like she went online and used a database to research articles about the Franco-Prussian war. 

“Are you into this stuff?” Gwen asks. 

Michelle looks up from her notebook, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “History? Generally.”

“This war, specifically?”

“No.” She looks back down. “Okay, so I’ll start a powerpoint this weekend, probably tomorrow. I promise I won’t wait until 10 on Sunday night.”

“Awesome. I hate when people do that.” Gwen shifts in her seat, flipping a page in her textbook.

“I’ll share it with you so you can add your part. Should be pretty simple since we’ve already outlined the presentation.”

“Cool.” Gwen smiles. 

“Cool.” Michelle makes eye contact and holds it before glancing down. She draws a square around something she’s written, following the lines of the paper. “I’m, uh, sorry about you and Peter. He really liked you a lot,” she says. Her words are almost dry, but there’s a sincere shakiness underneath them.

Gwen swallows. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Sorry.” Michelle shakes her head, grabbing the pencap stopped against her textbook. “Sorry. We’re finished, and I should go. Don’t want my Thai to get cold, you know?”

“No, it’s-- it’s not your fault we broke up.”

Michelle’s head snaps up, and her eyes have gone hard. Instantaneous. “I never thought it was.”

“I didn’t mean to imply--”

“--I know.”

“We could be friends,” Gwen offers. She arches her foot against one of her chair’s legs. “Real ones. We could read _Persuasion_ together.” 

Michelle stares at her, eyes searching but closed off. She nods almost imperceptibly. “Okay.”

Gwen doesn’t tell her that she read it months ago when she realized Michelle was never going to stop blowing her off. She’s perfectly happy reading it again.

Michelle responds to Gwen’s text about studying for their European history final together. They discuss Anne Elliot, complain about how Midtown offers no comprehensive Asian or African history classes, and Gwen asks if she wants to see that new documentary about the US prison industrial system. She says yes.

It’s nice.

And when they return from winter break, Peter and MJ return to the cafeteria. 

They sit with Ned at a new table because their old one is occupied by freshmen who saw the empty space as free real estate. 

Gwen takes a bite out of a potato chip and focuses on Betty’s plans for a new investigative journalism piece and not on the clear view she has of Peter’s face and MJ’s ponytail. 

Just as Ned never talked about the two of them, MJ hasn’t mentioned Peter since offering her condolences in the library. Gwen knows why, but it’s suddenly irritating. She’s a big girl. _She_ broke up with _him_. Over three months ago! She’s totally over it. She’s fine. She’s going to ask someone to the winter formal! Gwen doesn’t know who yet, but it’s the dance where the girls do the asking, and she thinks she’d like to go. Betty floated the idea of asking Ned, and Gwen floated the idea of all of them and their dates pooling into a big group. 

She wonders, briefly, if MJ would ask Peter. If they would join the group. If it would be awkward. 

“You should ask Peter to the dance,” Gwen says, scooping a chunk of strawberry out of her ice cream.

“What?” 

“You should ask Peter to the dance.”

“Why would I do that?” Her words come out slow and suspicious. 

“Because you like him, and he likes you.”

MJ exhales loudly and runs her spoon along the top of her ice cream so it curls onto the metal. “He doesn’t like me. He’s just friendly. He’s like that with all of his friends. He treats me the same way he treats Ned.”

“Maybe he wants to kiss Ned, too,” Gwen says, amused. It’s a little weird, and her face gets a little hot after the words leave her mouth, but she smiles when MJ glares at her. 

“Maybe you and everybody else should mind their own business.”

Gwen chews on the frozen strawberry and swallows. “Who’s everybody else?”

“Nobody.” Michelle looks down before flipping her spoon in her mouth, a light flush dusting her cheeks. 

“I know it’s weird to talk about this with me, but you don’t really have a lot of other people to--”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“MJ, we’re friends, right?” Gwen asks.

“You’re Peter’s ex,” she says.

Gwen thinks that’s a fair point. That means something. Does make it weird. Especially since Gwen does still like Peter a little bit. She hasn’t grown out of the skin that he made goosebump, she hasn’t deleted the sweet, sappy texts he sent her, and she hasn’t forgotten the short spurts her breath came in the night they broke up, when she cried and cried until she had a headache.

But she’s going to the dance with Xavi, and his smile is warm and wonderful, and even if it kind of reminds her of Peter’s, he’s not Peter, and Gwen doesn’t want or expect him to be.

This is kind of weird, but it’s okay. Gwen wants MJ to be happy. 

“MJ, I’m not-- you can talk to me. Even about Peter.”

“Your ice cream is melting.” She shoots Gwen a look that very clearly says she cannot. 

Gwen spends spring break with her dad. There’s a father-daughter camping trip filled with hikes. Her dad forces her to take pictures with various bits of vegetation even when she insists she’s sweaty and gross and her hair is greasy.

“I want memories with my daughter,” he says. “Besides, you always look beautiful.”

They pick up McDonald's cones on the drive back to the city. The soft serve melts sweetly on Gwen’s tongue, and she keeps track of any out of state license plates she sees: Maryland and Pennsylvania and even Florida. 

“Your mom loved these,” her dad says before popping the last bit of cone into his mouth. 

“I know.” Gwen smiles, small but real. Thinking about her mother is bittersweet, but she feels better remembering her than trying to push the thoughts from her mind. “We’d always get them after parent-teacher conferences.”

“Because you deserved a treat for being an exemplary student.” He shakes his head, looking over his shoulder to switch lanes and pass the car going too slow in front of him. Her dad drives too fast on the freeway. It’s the one bit of risk he likes to take. 

“I did!” Gwen laughs. “I was always exceeding expectations!”

“That’s not a real grade,” her dad teases. “A smiley sticker does not say anything about your reading comprehension skills.”

“They exceeded expectations,” Gwen repeats. 

“At least the high school grading system makes sense.”

A small silence fills the car as the playlist her father put on switches from one track to the next. The opening dialogue of “Kabhi Kabhie Mere Dil Mein” plays. Gwen listens, licking a strip over her cone before dipping her tongue into the ice cream in the center. It always surprises her how quickly she has to bite around the pastry, the swirl at the top gone. She peels the paper around the cone, setting it in the cup holder along with her father’s discarded one. 

Her dad hums along when the music kicks in, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He and her mom used to dance around the living room to this song on their anniversary, and in her hospital room, Gwen’s dad would hold her mother’s hand and sing it softly when she was asleep. 

It’s a good ache, warming Gwen’s heart. She blinks back tears, and she can’t tell if they’re happy or sad or both. 

“I love you,” she says when the song ends.

“I love you, too, Shona.” His glances at her and his mouth lifts up.

Gwen loves her dad, so she doesn’t complain when he drones on about spending time with her before she heads off to college and abandons him, even though he knows she’s going to NYU to purposefully stay near. 

She gets updates from Ned on his trip to DC; this time he travels with his family, and there’s no scare like the one he and Peter told her they had during sophomore year decathlon nationals. Cindy and Sally send tons of pictures from the beach, and Gwen snaps back sunglasses selfies, trees, and pictures of her and her father’s freshly manicured toes after they return to the city.

MJ stayed in New York and doesn’t respond when Gwen asks if she wants to get lunch the Saturday before school starts up again. 

On Sunday, there’s a picture of MJ and Peter at Coney Island, and Gwen understands why MJ didn’t answer. May is sandwiched between them, and Peter’s holding a swirl of cotton candy larger than his head. May smiles warmly at the camera, her arms around both MJ and Peter. MJ’s mouth presses together like she’s trying not to laugh. Her eyes shine. Peter’s body is turned toward May and MJ, and he’s not looking at the person taking the photo. MJ’s captions reads, _Thanks for splitting a funnel cake with me, May._ May’s response is, _Anytime, hun!_

It’s not out of the ordinary, all things considered. 

But on Monday morning Gwen and MJ debate whether they should read _Women in Love_ or _Rebecca_ , and Peter skids to a stop in front of them. “Hey,” he says, voice shaking. He clears his throat. “Hey, MJ. Gwen.”

“Hey, loser,” MJ says, but an uncharacteristic flush begins rising on her cheeks. 

“Hi.” Gwen pushes at her headband. “How was your break?”

“Good. Uh.” Peter nods, scratching at the back of his neck. He glances at MJ with all the subtlety of an anvil dropping from the sky. “Good. I should … go. Yeah, I should--”

“Oh,” MJ says, almost surprised, eyes wide, one hand picking at the sleeve of her shirt. She nods. “That makes sense. Gwen and I need to figure out the--”

“But I’ll see you?” Peter rushes, not like he means to interrupt her, but like he can’t wait to confirm, entire body jittering with anxious energy. “Later?”

“The library?”

“Yeah.” Peter exhales, and his mouth pulls itself into a relieved smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling with the force of it. “Yeah. The library.” He waves, aborted, and walks away. He turns his head to look back three times, tripping over nothing. 

“What was that?” Gwen asks. 

MJ’s definitely blushing. “Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

“I think maybe he…” Her eyes dart around the hallway as she leans her head in, stepping closer to the wall of lockers to her left. “He might … nevermind.”

“You can tell me.”

“We … He hugged me goodnight after he and May dropped me off on Saturday.” She swallows. “I know that sounds stupid.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Gwen reassures.

“But it felt,” MJ pauses, sighs. Her eyes are glued to the linoleum. “It felt like maybe he … sees me.”

“Based on that display, he definitely does.”

MJ clears her throat and tilts her head up. She looks terrified, akin to the way she did when Gwen figured out she likes Peter, except her expression is more open now. “You think so?”

“Yeah, I do.” Gwen smiles, a bittersweet hurt she’s learning to appreciate. 

Peter asks MJ to prom. MJ says yes. 

“As friends,” Peter tells Gwen at lunch, insistent, guilt webbing around the words. 

Gwen glances at MJ, head buried in her book. She doesn’t react apart from her body stiffening and her mouth pressing flat. 

She doesn’t look up for the rest of the period. 

The dinner served at prom is decent, even if the salad dressing is too oily. Gwen drinks three shirley temples from the waiter behind the makeshift drink cart at the back of the hall Midtown rented out for the event -- the only dance that doesn’t take place in the school gym.

She dances with Xavi and Betty and Cindy and Sally and Abe and everybody she has ever done a group project with, anybody she has commiserated with as they plan dances and help with the rare assembly. She doesn’t feel too warm, even if she is, and she doesn’t notice if her updo is loosening. Gwen has fun, heels long since abandoned by her dinner chair on the outskirts of the dancefloor. Prom is exactly as she imagined it would be. She likes screaming along to the newest hits with her friends, and she likes Xavi’s gentle hands resting unsure on her waist when a slow song spills through the speakers.

“I’m gonna get another drink,” she tells Sally and Luciana when the DJ flips to an old Black-Eyed Peas song. 

Gwen sips on her fourth shirley temple, sliding into her seat and flexing her tired feet. She spots Peter and MJ still sitting at their table and looking out at the dance floor. The small, grandma heels MJ had worn kicked off, glass of water held in both her hands. 

Peter says something and points toward the dancefloor. MJ laughs, and Gwen tries to follow their gazes, spotting Flash’s flailing limbs in the middle of a circle his friends have formed. 

Her eyes drift over her friends, and she finds Ned with his arms around Cindy and Betty, swaying along to the beat. Gwen’s really going to miss everybody next year.

The song changes, another slow number. There are a few audible groans, and a sizable number of people meander off the floor and back to their tables. 

“Hey,” Peter says. 

Gwen looks up, eyebrow wrinkling. “Hi.”

“Would you like to dance?” 

“Um.” Gwen swallows and looks past him, but MJ isn’t sitting where she was before. “Where’s Michelle?”

Peter runs a hand through his hair. “Dancing with Ned.”

Oh. That’s good. “Sure.”

Peter holds out his hand, and when Gwen takes it, it’s familiar: the press of his palm against hers, but weird, too. She still feels fluttering around her stomach, but it doesn’t make her want to curl her toes. 

She rests her hands lightly on Peter’s shoulders, and his ghost along her waist, barely there, an almost awkward amount of space between them before Gwen laughs and ducks her head. 

“Are you having fun?” he asks. 

“Yeah, I am. Thanks.” She smiles, shifting forward. His eyes are wide, warm and wonderful, just the way she remembered. “Are you?”

“Yeah.” He shakes his head, and a fond, embarrassed smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “MJ’s really funny. She’s been telling me how she thinks everybody’s night is going to end.”

Gwen hums. “What’d she say about mine?”

“She knows you’re going to Sally’s sleepover after. Says you’re probably gonna fall asleep early.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Well, she likes you,” Peter answers.

Gwen almost says that MJ likes Peter, too, the words heavy on her tongue. She’d feel lighter if she said them, but she knows it would make this moment heavier, unfairly so. It isn’t her place, and it isn’t her poorly concealed secret to tell. 

“One day I’m going to get her to say that on record,” Gwen says instead, ignoring the itch to flex her fingers against Peter’s shoulders.

He tilts his head and bites at his lip. “Good luck with that. I’m still working on it.”

The DJ starts mixing the song with something more upbeat, altering the mood. Peter clears his throat. 

“Thanks for the dance,” Gwen says, dropping her hands. The crowd begins moving in one, giant wave, and she can only step back a few inches.

“No, thank you,” he says. “I’m really glad we--”

“Hands up!” Ned sings, bumping into Peter and throwing his arms in the air. MJ shoulders her way through the throng of students behind him, head down, before settling between Ned and Gwen, sending Gwen a strained smile. 

Ned scream-sings along to Usher with the rest of their graduating class. MJ loosens up, shifting her weight around, bending her knees in a half-bop, and cautiously lifting her hands in the air, allowing Ned to grab her elbow and raise her arm higher. He does the same with Peter, who laughs, and then they’re all half-jumping together. 

“Thank you, DJ!” Ned and Peter and 3/4rds of the room shout in unison.

Gwen’s giggle bubbles out of her, hiccuping and happy.

And as a Lizzo song starts up, she wraps her hand around MJ’s wrist and drags her toward the other decathlon girls. MJ flips Peter and Ned off as she’s pulled away, and Gwen laughs again, glad they’re friends, the real kind.

Peter and MJ spend the summer flirting and dancing around each other; the awkwardness gives way to something that feels more inevitable. They’re just one little leap from falling together. 

Ned and Gwen start exchanging looks when MJ kicks sideways at Peter’s shin during movie nights, or when Peter drops his head, laughing too hard at something MJ’s said, or when they slow down, shoulders brushing as they walk along the path to Shakespeare in the Park. 

Which is why it surprises Gwen, sitting in her cramped NYC dorm room -- her father insisted it was necessary she have the full university experience -- reading a chapter for her microbiology class while her roommate naps, that she gets a text from MJ: _Peter has a girlfriend._

_Congratulations!!!_

_It’s not me._

_???_

_She*_ followed by: _If you can call her human._

_?????_

MJ doesn’t respond. 

Gwen, Peter, Ned and MJ get coffee when they’re all home for winter break. 

“How’s Felicia?” Gwen asks while breaking off a crumbly piece of coffee cake and popping it into her mouth. 

“Good.” Peter nods. 

“I haven’t heard much about her.”

He shrugs. “She’s cool. Really smart and funny. I like her a lot. She absolutely aced our computer science final even though she doesn’t care about coding and stuff and had the worst time in class.”

“She sounds great.” 

“She is,” Peter agrees.

“She beat the level of _Zelda_ that Peter and I spent an entire week on in less than an hour!” Ned says. 

“She said it was stupid and boring,” MJ adds. She doesn’t actually roll her eyes, but it sounds like it.

“Didn’t you say the same thing?” Ned asks. 

MJ takes a sip of tea and _actually_ rolls her eyes. 

“You’re just jealous you died less than a minute in during your only attempt,” Ned continues. 

“It’s not my fault I’m not a nerd, nerd.”

Ned laughs and shakes his head. “Somebody watches C-SPAN in their spare time, and it isn’t me.”

“I could teach you, if you want,” Peter offers, earnest, amused tilt to his mouth. 

MJ squints at him. “No.” 

He laughs and scratches at the back of his neck. “Okay.”

An hour passes without incident, and then Peter’s phone vibrates, a picture of a pretty girl Gwen recognizes as Felicia flashing across the screen. “Hey,” he answers, picking up without hesitation and scooting his chair back. “No, it’s not a bad time--”

“You’re being rude,” MJ says.

“What?” He tilts the phone away from his chin. “Huh?”

“Rude,” MJ repeats. 

“Oh, right, sorry. I’ll just--” He points behind him. “No,” he says into the phone. “Yeah, nothing important. I’m just getting coffee with Ned and MJ and--” 

“Peter--” MJ shifts, reaching across the table to try and whack Peter’s arm, but she misses.

Peter laughs. “No, no, MJ is just trying to-- Felicia, come on, she doesn’t--”

MJ stands abruptly. “Sorry for interrupting. I’ll leave.”

She stomps to the bathroom. Peter frowns and holds his hand over the phone. “What did I do?”

“Just take the call outside, dude,” Ned says. He sounds tired. 

“It’s cold outside.”

“Put on your jacket.” Ned shakes his head, mouthing to Gwen in a way they became accustomed to over the summer: “MJ and Felicia don’t like each other.”

“I’m gonna check on her,” Gwen decides. 

MJ’s reaction was dramatic and unlike her. She normally clamps down on her feelings, ignores them and pretends they don’t exist. Gwen suddenly wishes she had pushed for more information over text. She wishes she had been more insistent when they Facetimed and MJ had aggressively changed the subject when Gwen asked about Peter and Felicia. 

She knocks on the bathroom door. “Michelle? You okay?”

“Fine.”

Gwen twists the knob. “Let me in?”

“No.”

“You’re not really peeing,” Gwen says. “I’ve cried in a bathroom before.”

A moment later the toilet flushes, and she can hear the sound of running water followed by a gust of air from the hand dryer. 

She hears the click of the lock and slips inside. “What was that?”

“This is your fault,” MJ deadpans.

Gwen blinks. “Huh?”

“You. Telling me Peter liked me. And I-- He did. I know that, okay? I’m not stupid. But I thought--” She swallows, shakes her head and crosses her arms. There’s too much color in her face, even in the washed out bathroom lighting. Gwen doesn’t think she was actually crying, just angry. “I _am_ stupid, because I know what kind of girl Peter likes. For real likes.” She shakes her head like she might be more upset about using the phrase _For real likes_ than anything else. “The kind of girl he wants to _date_. And Felicia, she-- She’s not nice, but she’s pretty, and she’s sociable, and he’s always liked pretty, sociable girls. That’s his type.”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen says. She knows it doesn’t help because MJ just glares at her. 

“If he wanted to ask me out, he would have, over the summer. But he didn’t. I don’t know why I thought he mi--”

“I’m sorry,” Gwen interrupts, wrapping her arms around MJ and hugging her. 

MJ tenses for a long time, but then she wraps her arms around Gwen, too, exhales a loud, shaky sound that pinches between Gwen’s ribs. 

“You could have asked him out,” Gwen whispers, squeezing her tight. 

MJ doesn’t say anything.

She knows it’s true.

“I can hate her on your behalf,” Gwen adds. 

MJ huffs out a laugh and pulls back. “Thanks. Ned likes her enough for all of us, anyway.” She runs a hand through her hair. “Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Tell anyone what?”

MJ’s smile is wry. “You always hear these stories about girls hooking up with asshole guys, right? The guy doesn’t want to be official because he doesn’t have time, or some other lame excuse. But when the girl finally ends things, the asshole has a girlfriend a month later, right? It sort of feels like that, except I didn’t even get the kissing part.”

Gwen nods. 

She doesn’t know what happened. MJ isn’t an open book, especially not about Peter, and specifically not about Peter with Gwen There’s still a thin film of ex-girlfriend between them, even though Gwen and Peter have both moved on and MJ doesn’t have to feel any type of way about it. Gwen can’t say she thinks Peter wouldn’t date MJ, and she can’t say offering to teach her how to play _Zelda_ sounds decidedly not-boyfriend-like when the way he looked at her as he was doing it was very boyfriend-like. 

She can’t say MJ’s wrong, either.

Peter has a girlfriend.

_Peter’s my boyfriend._

_Congratulations!!!_ Gwen replies.

_It’s not something the requires praise, but thanks._

The nice thing about Peter and MJ dating is that it’s not much different than when they weren’t. Gwen is sure there is something in that statement to analyze and digest, if she wanted, but she’s happy for them, and she doesn’t care about what potentially uncomfortable truths it could unearth if she picks it apart. 

She spends two months of the summer before sophomore year with her family in Bangladesh, shopping with Aazmin, gossiping about the boys they like, and eating too much of her aunt’s cooking. When she returns to New York, she manages to find time to go to Shakespeare in the Park with MJ, Peter and Ned.

“Thank god you’re back,” Ned says, elbowing her lightly.

“Are they insufferable?”

“Always.” He smiles fondly, and even though MJ and Peter are in front of them talking about the newest pictures of Venus NASA released, MJ manages to hear, raise her hand and flip them off. 

MJ whispers to Peter during the performance, telling him to be quiet when he responds, but it’s not new behavior. Their knees and shoulders brush, and Gwen watches _Much Ado about Nothing_ the same way she watched _Measure for Measure_ with them the summer before college. 

When the play’s over, Peter stands up, holding out his hand. “Intelligentest lady of thy audience, would thou alloweth me the pleasure of escorting thee to the nearest exit?”

MJ snorts. “That accent was awful.”

She takes his hand, letting him pull her up before lacing their fingers together. 

They have a movie night one week during the summer prior to junior year when Gwen, Ned and Peter find their way to Boston. MJ stayed in the city for an internship, and she offers her apartment up for couch surfing. Gwen gets the sofa the first night, Ned takes the floor, and Peter schmoozes his way into MJ’s bed. Or, he would have, if she didn’t wrap her fingers around his wrist, saying, “I haven’t seen him in three weeks. We’ll try to keep it down.”

(They do.) 

Gwen crashes in MJ’s bed the second night, and when MJ gets sleepy, Gwen coaxes information out of her, assuring her that it’s not awkward. Gwen has a boyfriend in the city, and she and Peter practically never dated, it’s been so long. MJ chews on her lip, eyes bright and giddy in the shadows of her bedroom, and when she tugs up the overly large T-shirt she’s sleeping in to show Gwen the hickey by her bellybutton, Gwen giggles like a schoolgirl. MJ slaps her arm, tucking her head into her pillow to hide her own laughter. 

Gwen isn’t invited to the actual wedding -- it happens in a courthouse, with Ned, May and MJ’s Aunt Anna as witnesses. 

She’s invited to the reception after, though, flying out from Austin where she relocated for a job two years ago.

It’s held on a rooftop patio, and it’s a small, intimate affair. There’s a tiny, vegan cake they cut, and MJ smears it around Peter’s mouth. He laughs, wiping the frosting away with a napkin, and she thumbs at the corner of lip like there’s something left over. Gwen suspects there isn’t. They serve cupcakes, and Gwen tries a vegan one. The chocolate tastes rich and decadent, and it’s pretty good, not overly sweet. 

She watches Peter and MJ sway around the tiny dancefloor, and the lights around them twinkle, intermixing with the ones from the city beyond them. Neither MJ nor Peter are overly good dancers, but MJ told Gwen they practiced, and they move in a small circle. MJ lets Peter lead for the first, and probably last, time in her life. It’s nice and lovely, and when they spin, cheeks pressed together, MJ mouths along to “Save the Best for Last.” 

MJ’s parents aren’t here, even though she told Gwen they were invited, just as she informed Gwen this was their wedding song, too. Gwen is still surprised, sometimes, about the secret, gooey, marshmallow fluff MJ conceals inside her body. 

She probably shouldn’t be; MJ married Peter, after all. 

May and Anna each say a few words, and Ned insists on calling himself the best man, giving a speech to commemorate his two closest, long lasting friends’ nuptials. Peter openly cries, and MJ’s eyes well with tears she doesn’t let fall. 

She plops into the seat next to Gwen while Peter dances “The Cupid Shuffle” with Ned’s family. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Gwen tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “How’re you holding up.”

MJ shrugs, tugging at her simple, white dress to reveal a worn pair of slippers. “Really good.”

Gwen laughs, nudging her shoulder. “Congratulations. I’m really happy for you guys.”

“Thanks.” Her eyes track Peter on the dance floor, and her mouth quirks when he turns the wrong way, running into one of Ned’s sisters. It’s cliche and silly, but Gwen thinks she’s glowing. She’s never seen MJ happier. “Guess I’m stuck with the loser now, huh?”

“No take backs.”

“Wouldn’t give him back,” MJ answers, flat but quick. 

“No, you wouldn’t,” Gwen confirms. She feels the warmth of MJ’s joy on her own skin, radiating out and overcoming the cool night breeze. 

Before MJ and Peter leave, Tony Stark wields the mic, insisting on saying a few words. MJ and Gwen find each other to roll their eyes, but there isn’t any real heat behind it. MJ laughs at the embarrassing stories Tony tells about Peter, tucked into her husband’s side, and Peter flushes. When Tony finishes, he shoves the microphone in Peter’s hand, instructing him to thank his guests; he doesn’t want to be impolite.

Peter clears his throat. “Uh, thank you all for coming. It means a lot that you’d celebrate with us. MJ’s my best friend--”

“Hey!” Ned calls. 

“You know what I mean, Ned,” Peter answers.

A beat. “I’ll let it slide this time.”

Peter laughs with fake exasperation, and MJ grins, looking toward Ned to offer a thumbs up. 

“Anyway,” Peter continues. “She’s my best friend. She’s the smartest person I know--”

“Hey!” Tony yells. 

“Be quiet,” MJ says.

Peter shakes his head. “She’s patient, and funny, and I don’t know why she chose me, but I hope I can show her how much she means to me every day for the rest of our lives, because even if I manage that, it still won’t scratch the surface of how I feel about her.” 

He swallows. 

“Also, she let me teach her how to play _Luigi’s mansion_ , which was pretty cool.” He looks at MJ, face impossibly soft and reverent. “I love you,” he says. “Thanks for being my wife.”

“You’re welcome,” she whispers, and Gwen knows the guests only hear it because the microphone is near. 

“MJ’s turn!” Ned calls. 

“Shut up,” MJ says, ducking her head and pressing her face against the curve of Peter’s shoulder.

“MJ and I are gonna, uh, go now. None of us deserve to hear her give a speech, and she’s trying to save us the embarrassment of putting all of ours to shame anyway, so.” Gwen sees him squeeze her hip. “Thanks for coming. You all mean a lot to us.”

He hands the microphone to the DJ, and May frantically tries to pass out white streamers cut into confetti when she sees Peter and MJ heading for the roof’s door, foregoing the planned exit where they walk between two rows of guests throwing pieces of paper at them. MJ yanks open the door, tugging on Peter’s hand as he turns to wave goodbye. 

“Thanks guys!” he shouts.

“Bye!” MJ adds, before leaning over to whisper something to him that makes him smile. 

“Bye!” Peter repeats.

And then he darts out the door, pulling her by their interlaced hands, the metal slamming behind them. 

“Finally,” Ned says, handful of fake confetti in one palm and unlit sparkler in the other. 

Gwen agrees. “Finally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote! 
> 
> I would like to thank everyone who read this series, left kudos and comments, and gave me any bit of encouragement and kindness. I have honestly never gotten such insightful, thoughtful, humbling comments on anything else I've ever written before. It has been a ridiculously humbling, inspiring experience, and to those of you who left said comments, I'm sure I told you so many times over already, but it remains true. I appreciate it more than I can express. Words? I've tricked you all into thinking I know how they work, but I am more grateful than I have the words for. Thank you again. 
> 
> PS. May definitely made everyone light their sparklers just because.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cut A Six Inch Valley Through the Middle of My Soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19572514) by [perfectlystill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill)




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